The Obvious Analogy is with Music
by liam22
Summary: Sylar/Claire "He’s trying to become a better man, the hero his mother thinks he is. He’s pretty sure it isn’t working. Not with her image still dancing around his head". Set early season 3.


**Title:** The Obvious Analogy is with Music  
**Fandom:** Heroes (Sylar/Claire)  
**Rating: **R  
**Word Count:** 924 words  
**Summary:** When he's lonely he thinks about her. Set early season 3.

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Late nights in level five are lonely. Lying on the concrete bed, for once, the drugs not pumping through his system and he can really feel how lonely, like an ache deep in his bones. Yet with each lonely day, he's one step closer to getting out of this hell hole.

He's trying to become a better man, the hero his mother thinks he is. He's pretty sure it isn't working.

Not with her image still dancing around his head.

He pretty sure heroes don't have these kinds of thoughts – at least not the kinds of heroes he was told stories about as a boy. Neither of his mothers would approve of the way her name flows around his head, like a forbidden melody he can't forget.

He can't help but think about another time, a time of red cheerleader skirts, that swish around legs, and fall too short on golden thighs. How every little movement promises a peak at the special cheer shorts below. He thinks of striping that uniform off her, and how underneath would be plain cotton, something so perfectly innocent. Nobody has every touched her like he is going to. His hands tense on the concrete at just the thought of someone else seeing her like this.

The hollow of her throat.

The slope of her breast.

The dip of her waist.

All of those images belonged to him alone. She's his; she always will be. He knows her brain and soon he will know her body as intimately. Arousal and anticipation mix together in an oh so wicked combination.

The curve of her knees and delicate ankles only invite images of legs wrapped around his waist. She's a vision made for the kind of worship he's doing now.

His hand moves to the growing tent in his paper thin company pants, as he imagines his own hands on silky soft skin. She would be in the middle of her nightly routine, smoothing Coconut Lime Verbena body lotion down thighs and calves, when he interrupts her. She would look up at him only slightly surprise, all bright and smiles at his arrival, and completely unaware of how her innocent activity was teasing him.

But she would soon learn. He would teach her, mold her into the goddess she should be.

As if sunlight golden curls could belong to anyone else; her hair had fallen in soft ribbons through his fingers, catching on the rough calluses of his hands as he patted her skull back on. It would be just as, soft as it falls across his chest.

His pants are down around his ankles and his hand fists him cock slowly. He can't quite decide on the rhythm she would use. He paused his strokes as he contemplated it. He always strive for perfection, after all.

Large doe eyes, that had once looked at him in horrified fear, would only shine with awe and lust as they viewed his cock for the first time. She would reach out tentative, smear the drip of pre-come into his skin, all while glancing up at him though eyelashes, seeking his approval.

She's so much more pliant in his fantasies then she was in real life. But that's ok, he knows all the tricks to beat that independent streak right out of her. She was his, she would learn. That settled it. He would have to teach her just how he like it: the up and down, the twist around the head, a squeeze at the base.

He closes his eyes and lets the feeling take over. The cell walls disappear, fading into the pale pink of her bedroom walls, a matching flower duvet on the bed, and a stark red cheerleading costume discarded purposefully on the floor. It's not his hand, but hers, stroking him up and down and reaching underneath to fondle his balls.

He's close, so so close, and the image in his head shifts again. She's hot and wet and ready for him alone. He would go slow, teasing, it is her first time after all, and just maybe to prove that he has the patience to do it, that nobody else can make her feel like this.

Her back would arch tight like a bow, and she would press herself into him, begging, just begging for more. His name would tumble across her lips, "Sylar, please god," as she asked for something she was

She would giggle in bed, a delighted sound, warm and golden just like her. The sounds she would make as she came is like music. And the echo of her cries burn into his memory, as he spills, hot and sticky, into his own hand.

He comes back down, not to her frilly bedroom, but to the concrete and glass of his holding cell. The disappointment weighs heavy, dragging him back to reality faster then he would have liked. The memory of her is not enough anymore. He needs to taste the real thing. He needs to feel her raw and real beneath his fingertips. He was only playing this hero gig for the perks, after all.

Two weeks later, he finds someone who can see what people are doing by just thinking about them. And when Noah isn't looking, he takes the power, even thought they were supposed to protect the old man. No use wasting something like that. He can't wait to get back to his cell, for the first time.

He's going to think of her.


End file.
